Wednesday, 10 May 2017

Taken to the Cleaners

I should have known things were going too Goddamn well.

Last night, round about seven, there was a knock on my door.
I go answer and there stands this incredibly beautiful woman; mid-twenties,
brown hair, dressed in a somewhat revealing top and a short, floppy skirt. “I’m
sorry to disturb you,” she says in this lovely, cultured voice, “but are you SJ
Smith, the writer?”

I get this huge, puffed up sensation in my ego. “Yes. Yes, I
am,” I tell her, with what hopefully comes off as a seductive grin.

“Oh my God.” She goes all coy, puts a hand over her mouth.
“I hope you don’t think I’m acting weird, but I wondered if you’d mind signing
this for me?” She pulls a well-thumbed copy of House of Fox from her bag.
“It’s, like, my favourite book ever.”

Somebody has actually read my novel. I can scarcely believe
it. “Of course I’ll sign it,” I tell her. “Come on in while I find a pen.”

Feeling like the cat that got the cream, I lead her into the
kitchen, where she makes herself at home, taking a seat on a tall stool and crossing
her lovely, tanned legs. My eyes are almost out on stalks, but I attempt to
play it cool. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.” She gazes at me
and licks her lips.

So I hand her a can of Lidl own brand lager, which she opens
and sups without a moment’s hesitation. My God, she may be my dream woman; drop
dead gorgeous and a cheap date. I
rattle around in the drawer and locate a pen. “Who shall I make it out to?” I
ask, opening the book at the title page.

“To your biggest fan.” She slides off the stool and slinks
round the counter to stand right in front of me. The scent of her perfume sends
my head giddy. “Close your eyes,” she commands.

I do as she says. Next thing, her hands are adroitly undoing
my belt, and off come my trousers. Then my underpants slide down my legs, and
I’m thinking I’m the luckiest guy in the world right about now.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. She handcuffs me to a stool, then paces
up and down the kitchen. She’s twirling my underpants around her finger and
talking into a cell phone. “Yes, I’ve got them in my hand,” she’s saying. “It
was just as easy as you said it would be. He’s clearly an idiot. He actually
believed I’d read his crappy book.”

“You rotten cow bag.” I can see this now for what it is; she
isn’t my biggest fan at all. This was nothing more than a duplicitous ruse,
played out to get her hands on my prototype self-cleaning underpants.

The front door opens and closes, and two guys let themselves
into my house. The first is a bruiser; built like a brick shithouse with a
scowl that would wilt lettuce. The second is a little more refined; expensive
clothes, salt and pepper hair and a huge, gold sovereign ring. I recognise him
immediately; he’s none other than Sebastian Minky, boss of the Minky Brothers
Corporation, the biggest washing power manufacturers this side of the border.

“Now,” he says, getting right in my face. “What’s all this
bullshit I’m hearing about self-cleaning underpants?”

The bruiser goes off and wrecks my underpant research
laboratory, smashing up my equipment, trashing my notes and deleting everything
from my hard drives. Meanwhile, Minky spells out to me in no uncertain terms
that my career as an underwear maker is over. “Be a good boy, and we won’t have
to visit you again. Next time, the damage will be far more serious.
Understand?” He slaps me lightly on the cheek, tucks my prototype Perma-Pants
into his pocket, then the three of them take their leave.

Damn. First the monkeys, now the Minkys. Why does my life
have to be so complicated?